Thursday, August 28, 2014

I want to be a tennis ball. I want to be inside in a little can with my two lovers until I hear that great vacuum sound of fresh opening up, that sound of love, and then: there’s the world! I want to go there right away then, and be by myself in the sun and clouds and sky, floating ever upward, not being used for sport, not being hit in the face or butt for someone else’s amusement. I want to be free to float, or to bounce, or to rest, alone. I want to be yellow.

Once there was a saint who was very naughty. When her father came home from a hard day’s work, he removed his boots and sat in the comfy chair near the fire. “Come give your Papa a kiss,” he said. But the little saint was tired and comfy, too, and didn’t want to move. “If you want a kiss, you must come get it from me!” “You naughty little girl!” the father said. “Just for that...” we will leave the story there. She was a naughty little girl, but she wasn’t a saint yet. When we are in heaven I will tell you the rest of the story, which concludes some fifteen years before she becomes a saint, dies, and then goes to heaven and tells me a story while I am sleeping and gazing at her, wondering if she looks somewhat familiar.

Monday, August 18, 2014

Today seems like a good day for a Mambo Party. But everyone is somewhere else today–how will I contact them in time? The weather is fair, the sun is golden, there is a slight breeze–perfect Mambo weather, although things are dreadful everywhere in Mambo Land. All the more reason to have a Mambo Party! I will have it and serve cake and ice cream and turn on the phonograph and I will say “Get better, world! Get better!” and Mambo. If there is a full moon, we can dance outside, and pray in Spanish for things to get better like they used to do in the Golden Age. Of Mambo. And things got better, and things got worse, and then there was even more Mambo. Then guess what. Our tootsies hurt. And then guess what again. Mambo.

When somebody showed me a photograph of a jukebox and asked me if I recognized that jukebox I said No, I didn’t recognize that jukebox but I could recognize other jukeboxes. I also didn’t recognize the song that was playing but I knew other songs. I remember a pretty girl and a jukebox, but they were in different places and different times. You are pretty to me for simply asking me this question. You are a pretty girl even when I make you up and I say Here we are now in the same place...with a jukebox and a song in a photograph...

Tuesday, August 05, 2014

Abraham Lincoln admired the Great Spangled Fritillary which in turned admired the hummingbird which in turn admired Abraham Lincoln who never mentioned his feelings about hummingbirds specifically, although he mostly like would have enjoyed being one.

Stella wrote a pageful of fractions on an orange piece of paper. She wrote 1/2, 1/3, 1/4, 1/5. She wrote 1/2 and 1/3 twice. Stella used a pencil to write the fractions. Stella used a vinculum rather than a solidus to separate the numerator from the denominator. That is to say: Stella wrote this: “/” instead of this: “––”. Why did Stella use the vinculum? Children tend to use the vinculum, while adults tend to use the solidus. By examining this piece of paper, you can conclude that Stella was a child when she wrote this fractions, due to the vinculum usage...

Sunday, August 03, 2014

I never wished upon a star, because I always imagined being on a star, actually being on a star, and was terribly frightened of losing my bearings in a fit of vertigo, realizing that the twinkly edge was very precarious and sharp and warm, and to slide down a star might break all your bones, rupture your spleen, or worse–if you could not grasp the delicate white edge and pull yourself to safety, you might end up forever in the dark and twinkling vastness of outer space. I can’t imagine anything more beautiful and lonely, but it is the beautiful, not the lonely part, that made me never wish upon it.

Saturday, August 02, 2014

I can’t imagine what someone who owns a lighthouse must look like. I imagine it is a man–it must be a man–and he must be quite old and wrinkled. Of course it could be a woman: old, wrinkled, and smoking a pipe. Those lovely sweaters from Norway? What are they called? And those blue caps?What are the lonely people who own lighthouses called? They must be that. Recently I was told that no one owns a lighthouse–that they belong to all of us. Long ago I was told: don’t worry, there are no more lighthouses. And now that they’re gone, they belong to no one. And no one will ever grow old, or cold. No one will find their way. Let’s sit down and draw a lighthouse, to keep us warm and safe and lost. Like the old days. You will never be lonely as long as this exists. You will never know your way. And tomorrow–what will I be told?

Here is what was in the salad: romaine lettuce, blueberries, salted walnuts, bacon, vinegar, and honey. The romaine lettuce was grilled! Grilled, I tell you–grilled! It was grilled romaine lettuce. Now I have said it three times and I will never forget it. Paul told me to do this when I was 12. But he was talking about people’s names. Who is named Romaine? Only that which remains. I remember Paul’s name. Tonight we ate Romaine.

I am going to walk out into the rain to the market because if I stay inside nobody is going to say anything funny to me.

Outside at the market, the lady said she had never eaten a Green Zebra.

Outside at the market, the owner told her workers that the watermelons were Charleston Grey. Her workers said: “Grey?”

Outside at the market, I saw a tomato that said “Blu Beef Tomato.” I thought they meant Bleu. I though the tomato was French. But really, the L was ‘i’ and the U was ‘g’ so it was a Big Tomato. The tomato looked almost like Maurice Chevalier. But when I discovered that there is no such thing as a Bleu Tomato, he looked much more like Eric Estrada.

Outside at the market, I said Hi, my name is Ricky, and she said, Hi, my name is _ _ _ _ _ _ _ but I turned around and didn’t hear what her name was. Suddenly, I was surrounded by Emergency Medical Technicians and big tomatoes.

And peas and corn.

And blueberry watermelon popsicles.

And a woman saying “Would you like a blueberry watermelon popsicle?”

Outside at the market, the EMT said: Fewer people beat each other up in this county than, you know, the one next door.